Olivia’s Luck (2000) (41 page)

“
Piss off!
” I shrieked, pushing him away. “Just piss off!”

He backed off and I sobbed on. Turned my back to him, sat down on the terrace wall and wept. I couldn’t stop, actually. It was as if he’d taken a brick out of the dam and it had just burst all over the place, exploded everywhere. He lit a cigarette and perched tentatively a little way along the wall; beside me, but not too close. Eventually my sobs subsided and I got to the catchy breath and shoulder-shaking stage. I threw back my head, wiped my face with the back of my hand and gazed blankly up into the night. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Simply couldn’t believe it was true. He lit another cigarette and passed it to me. I dragged on it gratefully, right down to my toes, feeling calmer now. Shaky, but calmer.

“You have every right to be furious.”

“Of course I have,” I muttered.

“And every right not to have me back.”

“That goes without saying.”

“And I swear to God this isn’t calculated persuasiveness; this isn’t me sailing back in here because things aren’t working out and I’m wondering if I’ve been too hasty in abandoning you, abandoning a cosy, settled life. It’s much more visceral than that. I’m desperate, Liwy, absolutely desperate without you.”

I couldn’t answer.

“Think about it, Liv,” he urged. “Think about what we had, what we’d be throwing away.”

“I’ve done nothing
but
think about it!” I replied hotly. Suddenly the rage shot up through my body like a high-speed elevator. I was speechless again, then incensed, incoherent with fury.

“How
dare
you! God, these past few months – what we’d be throwing away – how
dare
you…what
you’ve
thrown away, you bastard!” Suddenly I was on my feet, fists raining down on him, pummelling him as he sat on the wall. He stood up to defend himself, went for my flailing fists, caught my wrists, held them tight, and to my horror, as we struggled I was sobbing again. This time he pulled me close. My strength failed me and I collapsed on to him, wept into his cotton T-shirt. It smelt of fresh air, hay. Of Johnny. He stroked my hair, kissed the top of my head, his arms tight but shaky around me. And it was lovely. Normal. Like coming home. I shuddered into his shoulder. No more chasing rainbows, I thought, peering blearily into his T-shirt through wet lashes and soggy mascara; no more awful dates with Malcolms and Rollos; no more rejections from famous musicians; no more making a fool of myself; no more pity from friends; no more sympathy; no more being strong for Claudia and breaking down when I’d put her to bed and shut my bedroom door; no more empty future; no more living in fear of being like my mother – just Johnny, the love of my life, the ache in my gut, the soulmate I’d had beside me since I was a teenager, my only family, back where he belonged. Who wouldn’t be tempted?

“It’s just a blip,” muttered Johnny fiercely into my hair. “Our only blip, in twelve years. Three months of madness, that’s all, a madness that gripped me. But it’s gone now. Gone for ever.”

I drew my head back from his chest. Found his eyes. “And her? Why not her?”

He sighed. Loosened his grip on me. Looked away. “It just didn’t work, Liwy. She’s so – possessive, so jealous. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, it was suffocating, stifling.”

I thought back to when I’d seen them together, two blond heads bent over the concert programme. “You didn’t look very stifled at the Abbey.”

“God, that was so awful. Seeing you there, with that guy.”

I frowned. Rollo? Yes, it must have been Rollo. And of course Johnny wasn’t to know he spat.

“And then tonight, waiting for you, knowing you were out with someone.” He gazed, hurt clouding his eyes. “Some guy?”

“It’s none of your business, Johnny,” I said quietly.

He nodded, head down. “No, you’re right.”

My God, his penance would be huge, though, wouldn’t it? I thought, looking at his blond head, bent low, sorrowful, remorseful. And think of the mileage in that; I could milk it for months, for years. He’d have to toe the line for the rest of his life. I’d have the upper hand entirely, which I wasn’t convinced I’d ever had. But would that be healthy? Would that, at the end of the day, help either of us? Surely if this was to work, it had to be with a clean slate. It had to be even-handed, shoulder to shoulder, facing the world together, and with no Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. But how realistic was that? Not very. How often would I be tempted to say as he failed to empty the dishwasher – oh, and I suppose you’d rather be with your bloody whore than tidying up the kitchen! But then again – I gazed up at the night sky and sighed – what was the alternative? To say: no Johnny, sod off, I’m making my own way now, having a great time? Was I? I thought about that one carefully. No, a better time, I decided, but not a great time. And how come I was even weighing it up? I thought, suddenly startled. I pushed an astonished hand through my hair.
Seriously
weighing it up too, genuinely thinking of rejecting him, and not just to play a game, to keep my pride, to make him wait, to have a bit of “I’ll show the bastard” – no, I was seriously thinking of telling him to get lost, and yet this was what I’d longed for, yearned for, all these months!

“Do you still love me, Liwy?” Quietly, it stole out of the night. I took a deep breath. Ah. The trump card.

“Yes.”

Yes I did. Of course I did. How could I not?

“And can you imagine us…” he took a deep breath to steady himself, “not growing old together?”

Sorry, no,
this
was the trump card. The other one was just the knave. Growing old together. Sentimental pictures of white heads and rocking chairs side by side, gnarled hands creeping out from under the knee blankets, and clasping, as we turned wrinkled, faded smiles on each other. I shook my head. My chin wobbled.

“No,” I whispered. “No, I can’t imagine not doing that.”

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare play that ace.

“And if not for all that – ” he took me in his arms and squeezed me tight. I could feel his heart racing – “if not for me, for us, then – ” his voice cracked – “for Claudes? And – and, who knows, Liv?” he said, his heart thumping away now. “Maybe another child?”

A tiny baby in a crib, with Johnny, Claudia and me all standing round, looking lovingly down, sprang instantly to mind, and for the third time that evening I burst into tears. You wouldn’t think there’d be any left, would you, but there were. I soaked his shirt, arfcl he’ll forgive me for telling you that he soaked mine, too.

We sat on that wall for a long while on that warm, still, July night, talking softly, clenching and unclenching hands, even crying again – Johnny this time, not me – until eventually, it seamed natural as anything. To take one another by the hand, to walk through the house, and to mount the stairs to bed. Oh yes, by rigms, I should have made him fight, every inch of the way, made it much, much harder, but actually, I wanted him very badly. As we stood up from that wall and hugged each other hard, half a bathful of adrenalin shot up the back of my legs and swept forcefully around my body, and as he tightened his arms around me, I could feel his breath coming in spurts, roaring in my ear. I didn’t think – oh yuck, he’s been with her; and I didn’t think – how frigging dare he? I just thought – yesss. He’s mine. And he’s come home. And I want him.

We were kissing as we went up the stairs, desperate, tortured kisses, lips trembling, and then again beside the bed, eating the faces off each other as we struggled out of our clothes, falling together, pulling each other down, our naked bodies fitting like parts of a modular jigsaw puzzle, seamlessly entwined. We made love with a frenzy and a passion that I don’t think, in all our years of lovemaking, had ever possessed us before, and a greed too. Like a couple of thirsty camels happening finally upon that water hole. Finally we fell apart, flung back away from each other like deflecting magnets, satiated, replete, relieved. We stared up at the ceiling, panting, the duvet in a heap on the floor, the warm night air stealing in across our naked bodies. All was so still, so silent; just the sound of our breathing.

At length I reached down and pulled the duvet back. We curled up and lay together like spoons, Johnny behind me, his arms wrapped around me, both of us gazing out of the open window beside the bed, at the crescent moon.

“Where is she now?” I asked quietly, as reality came seeping stealthily back. So many questions. So many answers I needed. I wanted to sit up and light a cigarette, but that had never been our style.

“She’s back at her flat.”

“Oh. Not in France?”

“No, why?”

I shrugged. “Somehow I thought you’d left her there.”

“France was a disaster. It was a last-ditch attempt of hers to bring us together. She booked a hotel in St-Jean-de-Luz as a surprise. She wasn’t to know we’d spent our honeymoon there, of course, but it couldn’t have been more fatal. Couldn’t have sounded the death knell of our relationship more conclusively. We spent a ghastly few days in a stifling, hundred-degree heat wave, she, in dark glasses in our room to hide her red eyes and me, walking the streets. I walked everywhere, all around those little back lanes we discovered, with tiny painted houses, balconies and terraces spilling over with geraniums and bougainvillaea – remember? Remember how you made friends with all the madames, took cuttings, filling our room with little jam jars, determined to get them home somehow?”

“I remember.”

“I walked for miles. Came back only for silent meals, picking at food in happy, bustling restaurants, with her, still in dark glasses, sitting opposite me, and surrounded by French children on other tables sharing a late supper with their parents, about Claudia’s age, younger too, laughing, chattering into the night. Awful.”

I stayed silent.

“After three days of what should have been a three-week holiday, we booked out.”

“She wanted to go too?”

He hesitated. “Yes. It was a mutual decision.”

I spotted a lie. The first one. I swam towards it – then let it go.

“And now?”

“Now?”

“Well, either she’s accepted the fact that the affair’s run its course, or she’s distraught and in a heap.”

He swallowed. “Distraught and in a heap.”

For a brief moment I felt a pang of pity for her. Alone in her flat. But not much of a pang.

“Oh well,” I said, reaching for a glass of water, “I don’t suppose it’ll take her long to recover. Don’t suppose it’ll take her long to find another married man to play with.”

He didn’t answer. Ah, I thought, sipping my water. He wasn’t prepared to rubbish her, then. I wasn’t sure if I liked that or not. Yes, I was. “Isn’t that her game?” I demanded hotly.

“She – got caught up in something,” he said, picking his words carefully. “By accident. I take the blame. For everything. This has all been my fault.”

Suddenly I was furious. He was defending her. As I struggled to contain my temper, he went on.

“But now, because she’s desperate to cling on, she’s changed. She’s doing everything in her power to keep me. She’d go to any lengths: she tells lies, she’s manipulative – downright cunning too.”

This was better. I took a deep breath. “In what way?”

“In extraordinary ways. Recently she’s taken to writing letters to herself. Threatening letters.”

I sat up. “What d’you mean?”

He propped himself on one elbow and struggled to explain. “It all started when Claudes went missing, remember? God, I was upset – so full of remorse, thought it was all my fault, and I’m sure that’s when she felt me slipping away, sensed my first seeds of doubt. First she invented aches and pains, limped about the flat clutching her side and moaning, even made me drive her to the hospital, said she thought her appendix had burst. All spurious, of course. The nurses exchanged knowing glances as they examined her and sent her home within minutes, but I remembered thinking then that in some warped kind of way it was a cry for help. I had – ” he hesitated – “been passionate about her, helplessly so, and I think she was trying to rekindle that passion. Trying to say – look, imagine life without me. Imagine if I were to die, remember how close we were. Does that make any sense?”

I blinked. “Blimey. Bit extreme.”

“She is,” he insisted. “She’s neurotic and extreme.”

“And the letters?”

“That started quite recently. Threatening letters in childish capitals, Agatha Christie stuff, very naive.”

“But saying what?”

“Oh, death threats, you know – “Dear Nina, you’d better watch out, we’re after you” – all designed to make me hugely protective, to make me hole up with her in that flat for ever, barricade the door, put bars on the windows, shut out the world, never let her out of my sight.”

“Good God!” I gazed at him.

“I told you, Liwy, she’s nutty. She’d do anything.”

Naturally that frightened me for a second. I thought of Claudes, of
Fatal Attraction
, of boiling bunnies. “She’d bloody better
not
do anything,” I said hotly.

But I felt stronger, too, because of it. United against her. If she was nuts, it helped enormously. But once again, ridiculously, a pang of sympathy. Because for a while there, I’d been nuts too. I remembered trying to make a friend of her, practically offering to iron her underwear, much to Molly’s horror. I shuddered. Lay down beside Johnny.

He turned from his side on to his back and I gazed at his profile. Gazed at this husband of mine, square-jawed and bronzed, lying beside me in the moonlight. His hand, curled in mine, gradually loosened its hold as his eyes shut and Morpheus welcomed him back, down the dark lanes of sleep. And as I stared and stared until my eyes began to hurt, I thought – how weird. How strange. How…very curious. Four hours ago I’d been in Molly’s garden flirting with another man. Two hours ago, I’d been in aforementioned man’s car, as near as damn it propositioning him. And now, here I was, in bed with Johnny. If your probing, investigative, fly-on-the-wall reporter had slunk through my bedroom door right now, crept up to the bed, stuck a microphone under my nose and hissed urgently, “So how d’you feel, Mrs McFarllen? Our viewers are keen to know?” I’d have had to have answered, in the words of the tabloid press – gobsmacked. If he’d persisted, pursued his tack with, “But happy? Happy, surely, Mrs McFarllen?” I’d have replied – yes. Very. But, I decided, turning over to face the wall, I’d qualify that with ‘unsettled’. Happy, but unsettled. Those, I decided as I too, finally shut my eyes, were definitely my overriding emotions of the moment.